"You must forgive us both," said the lady, turning her mount towards Gramarye. "We've had a bad day. Quite early on we took the deuce of a toss, and I lost him. A labourer caught him, and then let him go again. By the time I'd got him, the hounds were miles away. I'd never 've believed it was possible to go so fast or so far as I did and never hear of them. After two solid hours I gave it up." Anthony was walking by her side, listening gravely. "What a shame!" he said. Then: "I hope you weren't hurt." "Shoulder's a bit stiff. I fell on the point. But a hot bath'll put that right. D'you live here?" "About a mile on. At Gramarye." The girl stared at him. "Gramarye?" "Not at the house," said Anthony. "I live in the cottage at the south-west end of the park." "Oh, I know. D'you work there, then?" Anthony nodded. "That's my job." "So you're Major Lyveden?" said the girl. Anthony looked up. "How did you know?" he said. A pair of large brown eyes regarded him steadily. Then the red lips parted, and André Strongi'th'arm flung back her handsome head and laughed merrily. "Did you think," she said, panting, "did you really think that you could come to dwell in the parish of Girdle, and the fact escape the notice of the other parishioners?" She hesitated, and a suggestion of mockery crept into her voice. "Or are you too wrapped up in the estate to think about anything else?" "I believe I am," said Anthony. "I beg your pardon," said Miss Strongi'th'arm with an elaborate courtesy. "Thank you very much for enduring me for three minutes. If I'd----" Her hunter broke into a trot. "No, no," cried Anthony, running beside her. "Please walk again." She pulled the horse up. "I didn't mean to be rude. I meant----" "I should leave it alone," said André. "You'll only make it worse. You're much too honest. Besides, I love the country, and I--I think," she added dreamily, "I can understand." "Can you?" The eagerness in Anthony's voice was arrestingly pathetic, and André started at the effect of her idle words. "I--I think so. I've given water to a thirsty plant.... I suppose the gratitude of a landscape..." "That's it," said Lyveden excitedly. "You've got it in one. The place is so pathetically grateful for every stock and stone you set straight, that you just can't hold your hand. And all the time the work's so fascinating that you don't deserve any thanks. You seem to get deeper in debt every day. You're credited with every cheque you draw. If I stopped, it'd haunt me." "It is plain," said André, "that, when you die, 'Gramarye' will be graven upon your heart. All the same, are you sure you were meant for this? Aren't there things in life besides the straightening of stocks and stones?" "The War's over," said Lyveden.